The Life of Atom
by Luapsel
Summary: Since 2077, the world has become a crumbling ruin. When a mechanic is dissembling a Mini-nuke, he discovers how to potentially decimate society using past technology. With others wanting to possess the new weaponry, he has to learn what it means to play god in the game of humanity.


The tools clinked noisily as the mechanic's hands sorted among them. A screwdriver and some scrap metal were pulled off the table. The tip gently fit into place of the mechanism. Twisting the handle, several screws began to plink onto the workspace. A small panel slid out of place immediately. As the panel was lifted open, an odor of sulfur and chemicals leaked through. Corrosive acid from the complex wiring system inside the Mini-nuke dripped slowly off the metal hull, leaving rust stains. Reaching inside the weapon, the mechanic found two nodes that held a battery in place. Upon closer inspection, the battery was a large set of Electron charge packs; the iconic red electrical tape wrapped the exterior. The two nodes clicked in synchronization as the battery was extracted from the weapon. On the back of the battery was storage for the electrical source. But this didn't make any sense.. Why was a battery that's used for rapid firing put into something that uses something entirely different; nuclear fission? New development processing? An experimental prototype? If so, then is it only unique to one type of Mini-nuke, or are they all meant for preparing something more destructive? This was a step forward in weaponry. The bombs that have befallen mankind could now be used again, if correctly. There was only one answer to all this. It was time to see The One.

Wind kicked up sand and debris from the cliffs as the mechanic reached it's edge. He declined slowly, careful not to trip. Once down at the ground's level, he started to make his way to the huge, undetonated nuclear bomb. When the bombs fell during the year 2077, supposedly The One landed at a secluded place known as The Devil's Throat, but didn't explode on impact. Instead, it's timer was stuck to 9999 seconds, and has remained that way for many years. The mechanic leaned to the hull, touching it's metallic plating. Looking at the corners revealed screws similar to that of the Mini-nuke. Reaching for his screwdriver, he started to work. The large panel was harder to slide off after the screws were removed, but it did nonetheless. Every component was intact and in pristine condition. Fascinated by it's complexity, the mechanic began sorting through the parts, wary not to set off an explosion. Assorted scraps were everywhere; more noticeably 150 Energy cells, 50 Micro-fusion cells and two sensor modules. But in particular, once again, he found several Electron charge packs. This surely couldn't be a coincidence, not since seeing the Mini-nuke. He opened his pack and stored them inside safely. Closing off the panel, he then thought of what to do next. If he revealed this information to the NCR, they would convict him for suspicion of terrorism. The Legion's Caesar would surely want it for himself and have him tortured or executed. He tried to think of what crazy fucker wouldn't want to use a nuke for themselves. But then again, maybe the crazy fucker is the one he's looking for.

* * *

Packing supplies for his further journey ahead took longer than expected. His little surplus remained in his shack near the outskirts of New Vegas. In his misshapen kitchen, he grabbed most of what he could find. In his satchel he carried, there was a Caravan lunch, some Crunchy mutfruit, three bottles of water, and bits of Brahmin jerky he made the night before. Seeming that was enough, he put on his dust-coat and went for the door. But right before he touched the handle, he suddenly remembered. Walking into the living room, he pulled his hunting rifle off the mantlepiece, along with a few clips of ammunition. In these times, a gun was needed. Once finally out the door, he walked away from the humble abode.

Along the old highways were forgotten outposts, long abandoned. The NCR's Camp McCarren faced his left. Most of the remnant buildings left behind were either used by junkies or worse; Fiends. These rival gangs that inhabited New Vegas started as small time raiders, but progressively became the psychotic druggies they were today. Still, some of them had sense and did business. The main leader, Motor-Runner, does occasional weapon smuggling and chem deals in exchange for caps. Talking business with him is easy… but not so much with the others.

A bullet flew by and struck the wall behind him as he was walking. Pieces of cement scattered across the pavement. Suddenly realizing, he held himself up against a concrete barrier with some sandbags to provide cover. His arms were shaking from the sudden shot. He reached for his rifle to load a round inside it's chamber and pulled the bolt, ready to fire.  
"Come on out, you little bitch! I'm gonna fuck you over when this shit is done," said a voice overhead, presumably a Fiend. The Fiend laughed to himself.  
"Please, I'm just a chem dealer. I need to speak with Motor-Runner," said the man over the barrier. It's best to have Fiends assume you work for them.  
The Fiend paused for a second to take it into consideration. After his moment, he asked, "Oh yeah? What's your name?". The Fiend lowered his rifle.  
"My name is Adam," said Adam. Presuming the threat was over, Adam got up from his cover, but still held up his hands to show he was surrendering.  
"Follow me. Stay close, or else I'll blow your brains out. Got it?", said the Fiend, staring Adam into the eye. Adam nodded understandably and walked by his side.

The gates of Vault 3 were once long ago a chamber for civilians to hide when the bombs fell. But since then, The Fiends have claimed it as their territory. The gears of it's massive gate groaned as it opened. The first room was lit by a red neon emergency light, flickering at random intervals. A Fiend stood by the gate with her rifle poised at the both of them. The other Fiend told her the situation.  
"Damn. I never get to shoot trespassers anymore. I could use a fucking hit right about now though. Motor-Runner is down the hall," she says as she points behind her. She leans back to a wall and downs some buffout pills.  
As they steadily walked, Adam kept behind. He had a feeling this might not work out that well, but he had to try. Any other way would lead to a quick euthanization of his plan. The palms of his hands were beginning to sweat.

The Fiend guiding Adam stopped at what seemed to be a locker room. It reeked of dirty laundry and urine. The ones that were open stored clothing and weapons.  
"Alright, look," said the Fiend, "The boss is just through that door. Make any sudden moves, you got me and two hounds ready to jump your ass. You make the deal, then get the fuck outta' here. Let's go." The Fiend pushed the door open, waiting for Adam to walk past. Adam briskly headed on.  
The room was surprisingly smaller than the rest; it must have been used for maintenance purposes. In the middle was a throne-like chair made of metal scraps and pieces, with Motor-Runner to complete it. Aside from standard raider armor, he wore a helmet that resembled a cow skull with horns protruding the side.  
Staring, he asked, "I heard you're our dealer. What are you selling? 20 caps a piece. I take jet, psycho, buffout… any drug in this city of sin will do." He grins at his last statement, and holds out his hand.  
"All I have," says Adam, placing two canisters of jet into Motor-Runner's palm. Motor-Runner tilts his head and stares again. He licks his cracked lips before speaking once more.  
"Is this really all we're doing here? I'm not here to talk. I'm here for business. Either do some or get the fuck out." He exasperatingly points his hand at the door.  
"I'm not actually that interested into chems as I am into weaponry", says Adam sternly, "I need an order of approximately 50 Mini-nukes."  
Motor-Runner is taken aback by the response. He glares and furrows his brow. Cracking his knuckles, he then leans up in his chair.  
"50 fucking Mini-nukes? Are you shitting me? With that arsenal I could basically take over this side of Vegas. The most we have in storage right now is six, but that's not going fucking nowhere until Camp McCarren is taken over," He spits off to the side, "Goddammit, what do you want me to fucking do? I can't smuggle that big of an order or else NCR is going to see something's going on. If I get those bastards wrapped into this, there will be nothing to see of tomorrow." He sighs and leans back again.  
"Well," says Adam, "Can this help?" Adam then reaches out of his bag and hands out a knapsack that makes a certain clinking noise. Motor-Runner looks at it peculiarly and hesitates before taking it. Pulling the strings and opening it, it's filled entirely of caps. He beckons the Fiend over to him to look.  
"You. Count these all," Motor-Runner demands. Obediently, the Fiend follows his leader's orders and starts to count them. After a couple minutes pass, the Fiend exclaims, "12,587 caps, Sir," wide-eyed. Motor-Runner slowly grins from ear to ear.  
"Now that's business my friend," he says, "Expect them all by next week."  
Motor-Runner rubs his hands together excitedly.

The Strip's casinos won't mind a few grand missing, right?


End file.
